Eric Lustbader - The Testament

Having been amply rewarded for wasting their time out on the dock, the phalanx of porters accompanied the three visitors into the hotel. The lobby was two-tiered (so its guests would not be inconvenienced by the acqua alta) and lit by the glow of fanciful chandeliers of golden fish and lamps of turquoise mermen and sconces of silver shell clusters conceived and manufactured by the master glassblowers of the island of Murano, which lay a small distance away in the lagoon. There was a pair of enormous fireplaces surmounted by carved marble mantels on which sat Louis XIV-style clocks of fired porcelain and ormolu. The settees and chairs were their match in ornateness and style, all filigreed gold, carved wooden cabriolet legs and mounded silk cushions.

Jordan had booked them one room, but since they had dealt with this situation before, they made no comment. Perhaps one room was all he could get: the hotel was filled to capacity. Berio left them, finally, after they had checked in, promising to pick them up in the morning and take them wherever they might need to go. When Bravo tried to tell him they didn't need him, he was insistent.

"Mr. Muhlmann's orders," he said, opening his jacket just enough for them to glimpse the grips of the gun slung in its shoulder holster. He grinned hugely before turning his broad back on them and walking with his rolling gait back the way they had come.

"What d'you make of him?" Bravo said as they went up in the elevator.

"Is he dangerous, or does he merely think he is?"

The doors opened and they got out.

"He couldn't keep his eyes off you," Bravo said.

"You're imagining things."

"No. It was how he looked at you, how he touched you." Bravo put the old-fashioned key into the lock.

"How did he look at me, how did he touch me?" she said.

"As if he was ready to eat you up."

Her eyes flashed. "You aren't jealous, are you?"

He turned the key, pushed the door open, and they went inside. The room was large and looked like the inside of an oyster shell-not only the plush furniture but the walls, as well, were covered in a moire silk fabric. To the left, up two low stairs, was the bathroom; fish swam across its tiles. He walked to one of the Byzantine-shaped windows, which overlooked the canal and the palazzi beyond. Starlight fired a thin crescent at the crown of the basilica of La Salute. The canal seemed to be made of jeweled moonlight and shadows, mimicking the pattern of the silk.

Jenny flopped onto the lush, high bed. "I think you are jealous."

Bravo looked back at her. "Of Vin Diesel?"

She laughed, watching him slyly as he went toward the bathroom.

"I don't know about you," he said, "but I feel like I need an excavating tool to get all the layers of sweat and grime off me."

The light came on, a butter-yellow glow, and then the water began to run. The door had a full-length mirror affixed to it, and by moving a bit on the bed she contrived to watch his reflection as he stripped off his clothes. She didn't want to watch-she knew what she'd feel at the sight of his naked body, but she couldn't help herself. His image, the sound of the running water brought back to her with heart-stopping force their erotic encounter in the tub outside Mont St. Michel.

Her eyes drank him in, the line and form, the play of shadow and light over his musculature. There was something about his flesh-the contours, the texture, the color, even the constellation of birthmarks on the large outer muscle of his upper left thigh-that drew her like a magnet. She was hot and cold, the feeling traveling through her with the astonishing energy of a bolt of lightning, leaving her weak. A bead of sweat rolled slowly down the shadowed valley between her breasts. All at once she could feel the grime on her-the crusty sweat-stink of travel and anxiety-like a rime of salt. Her thighs moved on the bed, and she pressed her palms together between them.

"Bravo," she said, but he couldn't hear her, he'd moved from her view into the fountain of water. It was just as well, she thought. She was not in full possession of all her faculties. She could not be held responsible…

All at once, she couldn't bear to be on the bed a moment longer. On bare feet, she crossed the room to an inlaid fruit-wood bureau. A bottle of wine stood on a silver platter, along with two glasses and a note. She opened the envelope, read the typewritten sentences.

Hearing him padding out of the tub, she said, "A present from your friend Jordan, how thoughtful."

Someone had forgotten the corkscrew. It was of no matter to her. She took out a round compact she'd had specially made for her. It had a lead lining to keep out X-rays. She opened it, removed a small folding knife with mother-of-pearl scales. At the touch of her thumb, the blade zipped open. With a deft twist of her wrist, she uncorked the bottle with it, poured them both wine. When she looked up, he was standing in the doorway in a swirl of steam.

"Pretty nifty."

She smiled, put the knife and compact away.

He was staring at her with a peculiar intensity.

"What?" Her hands were suspended in midair. "What is it?"

"I wonder," he said slowly, "if you'll come over here."

There was only a towel around him, its dampness hinting at the contours beneath.

"You're expecting me to keep my distance."

"Would I have any reason to think otherwise?"

Her expression was very serious as she brought the glasses to where he stood and handed him one. "I haven't had time to wash."

"All the better," he said.

The towel fell at her feet.

When Damon Cornadoro-the man who had introduced himself as Michael Berio-returned to the Hotel d'Oro's dock, marked out with striped poles in gold and blue, it was deserted. But his motoscafo wasn't. Inside, Camille sat smoking, her long, bare, shapely legs crossed at the knee. She lounged, one elbow cocked back, on the white leather bench seat that lined the bulkheads on either side of the cabin.

"Are your charges tucked in safe and sound?" she said when he came down to her.

"So far as I can tell." He went to the bar, poured himself a drink without asking if she wanted one. "You didn't tell me the woman was so attractive."

Camille took a long drag of her cigarette, her eyes glittering. "Excited already?"

He swallowed half his drink. "That one could get a rise out of a corpse."

She got up, then, and walked over to him, placed her cupped hand between his legs. "Let's see, hmmm." Her eyebrows raised in mock surprise. "I do believe you're right."

He dropped his glass and as it shattered onto the deck crushed her in his arms so that she gave a little moan. Then he scooped one arm beneath her knees and, lifting her, set her down at the bow end of the cabin. It was their favorite spot, the seats curving in on themselves, forming an erotic V.

Camille, sitting on the leather, spread herself until one leg was on either seat. Then she hiked up her skirt, but so slowly the movement transfixed him. When her lower belly appeared in the light of the gently swinging brass lamps the breath caught in his throat, and a moment later he was on his knees in front of her.

He let her take a handful of his thick, curling hair, tilt his head back, exposing his throat. "How easy it would be."

He didn't ask her what she meant; he knew.

She took from the bodice of her blouse a small folding knife. It flicked open with the touch of her thumb to reveal a thin, wicked-looking stainless-steel blade. She handled it like an expert.

Leaning forward from the waist, she put the flat of the blade onto his shoulder. "Is it the sight of blood, or the copper taste of it that makes people faint, do you think?"

"I wouldn't know," Cornadoro said. "For myself, I was brought up on it. Blood is mother's milk to me."